Otherwise
by Rhianwen
Summary: A strange visitor with stranger methods leaves Malcolm questioning the wisdom of his latest plan.


Otherwise  
  
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Summary: In which Malcolm, upon designing a virus to perfect the scheme of creating a world in which Sam Collins never existed, is shown exactly how much everyone, himself included, depends upon Sam.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them, they don't like me. ^_^  
  
Notes: Alright; first of all, I'm aware that this sort of idea was done on the show. I think the episode was called "It's a Rad Universe," or something. Now, as the title would suggest, it wasn't dealt with very seriously, even given what show we're talking about. Not only that, but the way they did it annoyed me to no end. They turned almost everyone into a running gag, and it just sort of made for a lacklustre episode, even though I think that it could have been a terrific one if they had gone for all funny, or even if they had gone for serious. Not only that, but I don't really buy that Malcolm's life would be perfect if Sam hadn't existed (I think he needs Sam to give him purpose far more than he knows) anymore than I buy that Tanker, Sydney, and Lucky would have been idiots with no personality (slightly different personalities, maybe, and with different levels of confidence). It is mainly this second one that annoyed me so much. Anyway, given the fact that I wasn't at all satisfied at the producers' take on what the effects of no Sam on North Valley would be, I'm trying my own hand at it, in a slightly more serious and (hopefully) realistic style, and I hope you'll be inclined to give it a chance. ^_^  
  
Category: Super Human Samurai Syber Squad  
  
Genre: Drama/Angst  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
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The hour was late, as was attested by the moon hanging high in the sky, visible through the window, its black and grey curtains pulled back. The small bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moonlight, and a dim circle of light thrown by a small lamp clipped to the edge of a black desk set into one wall, directly beneath the window. The room was silent as well, save for the frenzied scratching of a pencil on paper as one young man's dark eyes glowed in satisfaction at the fruits of the past few hours' labour.  
  
Finally, he lay down his pencil, worn almost blunt, on his sketchpad and stretched his arms high above his head to alleviate the ache between his shoulder blades and down his back from hunching over a desk for far too long. Smothering a yawn, he studied the newly finished sketch in the insufficient light that, along with fatigue, made his eyes ache. That didn't matter, though. It was worth it, completely  
  
"I've gotten rid of all memory of him, and I've gotten rid of HIM. This time, if all goes well, I'll do both," Malcolm Frink cackled to himself as he held up the recently finished drawing of a fierce-looking creature, and surveyed it critically. "It's perfect. Well," he shrugged, "of course it's perfect. I created it, after all."  
  
Wincing at the sharp pain through the cramped muscles of his shoulder as he turned around in his desk chair, he checked the digital alarm clock on his bedside table.  
  
"Three-thirty?!" he exclaimed in surprise and mild dismay. Then he sighed, nearly wishing for a moment that, as would have been the case with nearly any other teenage boy, a well-meaning parent would have burst through the door at one or two and ordered him to bed.  
  
Abruptly banishing this thought, he swung around in the chair and climbed stiffly to his feet.  
  
"Well, so much for the first three periods tomorrow. Ah, well. They're not that important. But I'll have to discuss this with Kilokhan tomorrow. I'm far too tired to fight with him now."  
  
Sliding the drawing into a large folder on the corner of his desk, he stifled another yawn.  
  
"I wonder if there's any point in going to bed at all. I could just make a pot of coffee and actually make my classes tomorrow..."  
  
It didn't take long to dismiss this thought as his eyes lit on the inviting sight of a tangle of sheets and quilts thrown haphazardly onto a double bed.  
  
"Nah."  
  
And so, rubbing his eyes wearily, Malcolm Frink threw on a pair of pyjamas, yanked back the top quilt, and climbed into bed.  
  
His last thoughts as he drifted off were of shining visions of his life, had Sam Collins never come into existence...  
  
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He sat bolt upright in bed, blinking to accustom his eyes to the thick darkness surrounding him. What had woken him up?  
  
Sitting very still, barely breathing, he strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. Finally, he rolled his eyes, reflecting that a dream must have woken him, and slid back under the covers.  
  
A crash echoed through the house from the kitchen, and Malcolm froze.  
  
'What was that...?'  
  
A second crash followed closely after the first.  
  
'Oh, shit! Someone's in the house!'  
  
Sliding quickly and quietly out of bed, he groped for the switch of his side table lamp, and in the soft light that bathed the room, hunted for a suitable weapon.  
  
"Sketchbook," he muttered as his eyes lit on his desktop. "No."  
  
Next they travelled to the pile of dirty clothes by his door.  
  
"No."  
  
Next, a shoe. Possibly, but...  
  
"No."  
  
Finally, making a snap decision, he wrenched his curtain rod free of his window and, this security in hand, inched his way out of his room and downstairs.  
  
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Leaning easily against the kitchen counter, the tall man clad in a black leather trench coat flipped idly through his notebook.  
  
"So, who have we got here? ...Malcolm Frink. Made a...pact with an evil computer program? Ooh...this one's going to feel like more trouble than it's worth," he sighed, sliding the notebook back into his pocket as the footsteps grew nearer.  
  
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Malcolm crept stealthily up to the doorway adjoining living room and kitchen, and felt his palms grow cold, and a sick sort of fear form in the pit of his stomach at the sight of a tall, shadowy figure leaning casually against the kitchen counter.  
  
'I should just get the hell out of here and phone the police,' he thought wildly, beginning to inch toward the front door, the curtain rod still gripped in his hands.  
  
As he turned to bolt, however, a cheerful, if slightly gravely voice rang out behind him.  
  
"Hello, there! You must be Malcolm."  
  
Knuckles growing white as he clutched the metal rod tighter, the young man turned around slowly.  
  
"Yeah; who the hell are you?"  
  
"You may call me Alioqui," the figure replied, pushing off from the counter and approaching. "And you can put down the...what is that? A curtain rod? Anyway, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it long before now."  
  
Narrowing his eyes and setting his jaw, Malcolm propped the rod carefully up against the wall.  
  
"Great. So, what ARE you doing here?"  
  
"Waiting for you," Alioqui replied cheerfully, raising one dark, narrow eyebrow at him.  
  
"And what do you want with me?"  
  
"Simply to...show you something."  
  
"This had better not be some sort of gay thing," Malcolm warned, reaching for the curtain rod again.  
  
Alioqui laughed heartily.  
  
"Don't worry; you're not my type, anyway."  
  
Malcolm frowned, stepping back slightly.  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"Simply put, you're not a woman."  
  
"True enough," Malcolm conceded dryly. "Now, what do you want?"  
  
Alioqui paused for a moment, seeming to consider his words carefully. Finally, he took a step toward the younger man, who frowned suspiciously and backed away. Alioqui sighed.  
  
"Shall we sit while I explain everything?" he asked impatiently.  
  
With a shrug, Malcolm pointed him toward the couch. After watching as Alioqui made himself comfortable, the youth relaxed sufficiently to take a seat at the opposite end, settling back against the cushions, wearing slightly threadbare from years of use by someone else; second-hand furniture, Mrs. Frink had said when reproached by her husband, was cheaper, and was plenty good enough for the few times they would be home, and for a sixteen-year old boy who never entertained, and spent most of his time in front of a computer.  
  
He looked curiously at the man who, despite his unconventional garb of ripped jeans and a brightly-embroidered shirt of cheesecloth covered by an ancient-looking leather trench coat, and the even more unconventional habit of breaking into strange peoples' houses in the middle of the night, looked entirely normal. With his mass of darkish brown hair, his somewhat brown and somewhat green eyes, his squarish jaw, and his somewhat lanky frame, not overly tall, but not particularly short, he looked like someone a person might have passed on the street and taken no notice of. But the shrewd, piercing gaze he had fixed Malcolm with was disconcerting. The young man shifted uncomfortably, quite aware that he had left his curtain rod out of reach, and that a pair of black cotton pyjamas would be no defence if the man proved to be dangerous. Finally, just as he was about to demand pettishly of this intruder what he wanted, Alioqui spoke up.  
  
"I think names are very important, don't you?"  
  
Malcolm frowned, quite taken aback. What sort of nut WAS this man, anyway?  
  
"I...I guess," he replied slowly. Then, as politeness fell entirely by the wayside, he glared. "But I really don't feel like sitting up any later making small-talk with some crazy who likes messing with peoples' minds."  
  
"I'm hardly messing with your mind, Malcolm," Alioqui said patiently. "I was just stating an opinion. It always feels tragic to me when I meet someone who belies their name entirely. Of course, the situation usually rectifies itself, as these are often the sorts who gain nicknames early on in life. Still, I cringe when I hear of a girl named Rose who is as pale and sickly-looking as skimmed mozzarella, or a man named Frank who could not be less honest if he tried."  
  
Malcolm rolled his eyes.  
  
"And I suppose you're going to give me some great insight into the meaning of my name."  
  
"None whatsoever. But you will forever colour the way I see the name 'Malcolm' after this, if just a little."  
  
"And what does this have to do with why you broke into my house?"  
  
"Do you know what 'Alioqui' means, Malcolm?" the man asked, one eyebrow quirked slightly.  
  
"Something you made up to sound mysterious, I'm guessing."  
  
"It's Latin. It means 'otherwise,'" the older man informed him conversationally.  
  
"'Otherwise,'" Malcolm repeated, inwardly groaning to himself that he would never get any sleep tonight. "And what should that mean to me?"  
  
"It is something of a hint as to why I'm here, if only you would be the slightest bit cooperative," Alioqui replied, an amused twinkle in his eye, visible in the dim light of the side-table lamps, and the light pouring into the living room from the kitchen belying the reproachful words.  
  
Malcolm's mouth twisted into a grim, sarcastic smile.  
  
"Oh, I get it. You're here to tell me that I'm wasting my life, and that friendship is the greatest gift anyone can receive. You're going to show me how my life could be, if only I would 'tear down the walls around my soul,' aren't you?"  
  
A moment of silence.  
  
"No," Alioqui finally replied, his voice hardening slightly. "How you want to live is your own business. If you don't like people, and don't want to be bothered with friends, that's your choice. You'll simply have to learn the hard way later on that the life of a hermit isn't all it's cracked out to be if it's not voluntary."  
  
"Then why ARE you here?" Malcolm demanded in exasperation.  
  
Alioqui sighed and shifted closer.  
  
"You are on the verge of doing something terrible. Something that no mortal should possess the ability to do. And it will be irreversible, because...well, never mind why. But the change you are contemplating is one that cannot be undone."  
  
Malcolm felt his mouth go slightly dry. How could this joker know about...  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Sam Collins."  
  
The words hung in the air between the grim, slightly pitying expression of the man, and the stunned, nervous expression of the boy.  
  
"How...how do you know about that?"  
  
"That isn't important," Alioqui replied with a careless wave. "The point is that you are contemplating erasing this young man from existence. This is something that defies the very laws of nature. Things do not cease to be. They simply transform. Change state. Similarly, memories are not a thing that can or should be tampered with. Memories are precious things, the good and the bad alike, that are given to us for a reason, whether to treasure or to learn a lesson from, however bitter it may be. Your plan to erase Sam Collins from the physical world, and from the memories of all who knew him, violates laws that you cannot understand fully. Hell, I don't understand them fully. I only have a basic idea of the enormity of what you plan to do."  
  
"Look, I don't need a moral lecture from someone who thinks that breaking and entering is completely normal," Malcolm said angrily, pushing himself from his seat. "If that's what you wanted to tell me, you can go now."  
  
"You still don't understand," Alioqui sighed. "Like I said, I don't completely understand, either. The full consequences are something that I have no way of explaining."  
  
"The slob makes that big of a difference?" Malcolm smirked.  
  
"You make the mistake of assuming that the true difference is in the big differences. There would be a few big differences, I'm sure, and I'm certain, several small differences that would be the truly significant thing."  
  
"I still think you're crazy," Malcolm declared airily. "And I want you to leave before I phone the police."  
  
"I can't tell you the difference that the absence of Sam Collins would have to those who know him, but I can show you."  
  
"And I can call the police."  
  
"I think you'd find it enlightening."  
  
"I think you'd find a ride in a squad car enlightening."  
  
"Really; you should see this."  
  
"No; I should go back to bed, content in the knowledge that you're in jail instead of in my kitchen, screwing with my mind. Or trying to," Malcolm finished with a smirk.  
  
"Actually, we're in the living room," Alioqui announced unnecessarily. "But back to the situation at hand. I know that you're an exceedingly selfish young man."  
  
"Gee, thanks," the dark-haired boy interjected sourly.  
  
"I know that you could change it if you wanted to, but like I said, I'm not here to change your nature. I'm here to show you how badly you're about to fuck up here."  
  
"Don't bother. I don't know how you know about this, but you obviously can't stop me if you have to try to reason with me. If you were from the government, you probably would have just shot me and buried my body at sea."  
  
"We don't work that way, Malcolm," the older man told him through gritted teeth.  
  
"And who is 'we'?"  
  
"Never mind that right now. I need to show you how huge of an effect the simple removal of one boy can have on the world. Since you have the common human failing of being very, very selfish, the most effective way of getting you to pay attention is to show you the impact in the context of your everyday life."  
  
"And how do you think you're going to show me, anyway?"  
  
Alioqui smiled, and once again Malcolm found himself shifting uncomfortably beneath that piercing gaze that seemed to bore right through him and find him to be shallow and empty. Not, as he would have hastened to tell anyone who asked, that he cared what some nut-bar thought of him, it was just a little creepy.  
  
"I hoped you would ask." 


End file.
